


Eighteen Candles

by Hsuany



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hsuany/pseuds/Hsuany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you find it as exhausting as I do," Peter asks, watching him eat, "being constantly surrounded by people who can't keep up?"</p>
<p>Stiles shovels cake into his mouth like the graceful swan that he is and rolls his eyes. "No, Peter, I'm not sure I can relate to your megalomaniac Bond Villain woes about not having smart enough minions. My main concern in life right now is whether or not my college roommate is going to be a raging frat douche."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighteen Candles

**Author's Note:**

> The awesomely talented [bitterbrokenbones](http://bitterbrokenbones.tumblr.com/) drew this beautiful picture for my birthday and I thought: I should write some birthday porn for her based off of it. So I did.

 

Eighteen is a pretty big deal, especially when your life is a live action survival horror game. Stiles is unbelievably relieved to have made it to the pornography and lottery ticket checkpoint with both hands still intact to carry out the purchasing of said porno and lotto tickets.  
  
The party—if it had happened— _would_  have been epic. Festivity plans had involved an ice cream cake and a karaoke battle and a clown for the sheer purpose of terrifying Scott.  
  
Alas, rampaging monster of the week supersedes birthday parties, and he ends up spending his eighteenth birthday attempting to direct the pack in a (un)coordinated attack against a hydra while developing newfound respect for coach Finstock. This shouting from the sidelines thing is hard. Nobody ever  _listens._  
  
"No, no, not the head, _what did I just say about the head?!_ "   
  
Stiles waves his arms like a deranged air traffic controller as Derek promptly twists off the beast's scaly mug and back flips away in alarm as two more sprout in its place. Scott yells, "I think when you cut off one head more grow back!"   
  
Stiles slaps a hand to his face and vindictively wishes for both of them to be run over by a parade of Winnebagos — seriously, that is how much force it would take to knock some goddamn sense into them.   
  
By the end of the night, everyone is exhausted and covered in dirt and blood and the overall mood is less than celebratory.    
  
"Sorry, dude," Scott says, slouching weakly against Allison. "We'll do your party next weekend?"  
  
"Pending any apocalypses." Stiles shrugs. He has long since accepted that his wants and needs are not on anyone's priorities list.  
  
The house is dark and silent when he gets home. There's a note on the door from his father. 

  
_Cake is in the freezer._  
 _If any of your friends break anything, they're paying for it. With interest._  
 _Happy birthday, son._

  
"No worries there, Dad," Stiles grumbles, shrugging off his jacket, "The only thing that's going to be broken tonight is the record for how much fun a person can possibly have at a party of one—"     
  
He trudges into the kitchen, flips on the light, and Peter Hale is sitting at the dining table eating his birthday cake.  
  
"Mother of fuck!"   
  
Stiles is impressed at himself for managing to make his outburst sound furious and not so much I-almost-just-pissed-myself.   
  
Peter lifts the fork elegantly to his mouth like he's dining on foie gras at an upscale restaurant for posh dickbags who drive their Lamborghinis to the supermarket. He takes a thoughtful bite and says, "I've been trying to decide whether or not the cake that's meant to celebrate your ascent into adulthood is shaped like a cartoon turtle for ironic reasons."

"Fuck you. Michelangelo is my spirit animal."  
  
Peter hums and carves the fork into the side of the ninja turtle's ice cream face, eyes glinting dimly as he cocks his head.   
  
"Oh my god, you've eaten half of it! Stop, this is  _my_  cake! The serving size is for ten people, Jesus Christ."  
  
"Really. You have ten friends?"   
  
Stiles loves Peter's mock-surprise face like he loves pubic hair in his soup.   
  
"...get out of my house, asshole."  
  
Peter flat out ignores him, because that's what all the cool kids do these days. "Let me guess. Monster shows up, goodbye party plans. You were the first to figure out what it was, tried to tell the pack not to go for the heads. They did it anyway. Twenty heads later, they finally slowed down long enough to hear you tell them to use the hydra's own blood to poison its wounds?"  
  
"That's... pretty much exactly what happened, yeah." Stiles slumps down at the table, because, whatever, he's tired. "Wait a minute. Were you watching from the shadows the whole time whilst deliberately NOT helping?"  
  
Peter licks frosting off the fork and says nothing.  
  
"You are  _such_ an asshole."   
  
He smiles like Stiles has paid him a wonderful compliment, and offers Stiles a second fork. Stiles hesitates for only a second before snatching the fork and digging in, too worn out to pretend he hasn't been looking forward to this cake all day.    
  
"Do you find it as exhausting as I do," Peter asks, watching him eat, "being constantly surrounded by people who can't keep up?"  
  
Stiles shovels cake into his mouth like the graceful swan that he is and rolls his eyes. "No, Peter, I'm not sure I can relate to your megalomaniac Bond Villain woes about not having smart enough minions. My main concern in life right now is whether or not my college roommate is going to be a raging frat douche."  
  
"You must be ecstatic about leaving."  
  
"Hell yes," Stiles answers without hesitation. After a pause to actually consider the question, he becomes less certain. "Well. I mean, I'll miss everyone."    
  
"Everyone?" Peter's smile splits his face, showing his canines.  
  
" _Especially_  people who have threatened my life."   
  
"If you're referring to me, I never had any intentions of killing you. You're young, surely your memory hasn't already begun to degrade."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm your favorite of the Scooby Bunch. I'm honored, but mostly just creeped the fuck out."  
  
"Lydia is my favorite," Peter says.  
  
Stiles drops his fork down and it hits the table with an angry  _clang_. "What the hell are you even doing here?"   
  
Peter's laugh sounds like a howl. He is clearly delighted, and Stiles feels like a huge idiot for taking the bait, and pushes away from the table to stalk towards the fridge. "Can I get you something to drink? Battery acid perhaps?" He leans down to grab the Mountain Dew, and when he shuts the fridge and turns, Peter is standing behind him.   
  
" _Shit_ , man!"   
  
Peter is silent, eyes drilling into him, and Stiles hates it when he does this, hates to admit that Peter is really goddamn intimidating when he doesn't speak. The predatory menace emanates from him, fluid and effortless. He's holding his hands out, like he's getting ready to catch something, and as if on cue Stiles' knees give out, and he half-stumbles half-collapses into Peter's waiting arms. The Mountain Dew bottle clatters to the floor.   
  
"What the... fuck?" All of a sudden, his limbs turn into wet spaghetti, heavy and limp, and he sags forward under the weight of his own body. "Oh, my god, did you... did you  _roofie my cake?_ "  
  
"Of course not." Peter sounds offended by the suggestion. "It was the fork."   
  
"I am going to shave that child molester goatee off your face with a cheese grater," Stiles says.  
  
Peter huffs his laugh onto Stiles’ cheek. "I'm here to give you a gift. That's what people do on birthdays, right? Give gifts."  
  
A gift. The hairs on the back of Stiles' neck prickle with fearful realization — the bite.  
  
"Ooh no, no no, not this again. We already tangoed this foxtrot: the answer is still negatory, like it was the last ten times!"  
  
The wordless stare Peter gives him is so loud it makes Stiles' ears ring. He backs Stiles up against the refrigerator door, and Stiles doesn't struggle because he  _can't_. Rough palms snake their way around his wrists, thumbs seeking out his drumming pulse. A knee is sliding between his legs, propping him up, and Stiles watches with horrified fascination as Peter's teeth grow from a man's to a monster's. The beast descends, swift and merciless, and Stiles snaps his eyes shut in panic.  
  
"Stop! Wait! I don't—!"  
  
He gasps when he feels the fangs - but there is no pain. Just the dangerous grazing of too-sharp teeth, the wet caress of a tongue on his skin, and lips closing in and sucking down on the spot. The knee between his thighs slides up with deliberate intent against his groin, and the noise that comes tumbling out of his mouth is so unbelievably  _wrong_  that he wishes Peter  _had_  torn into his carotid artery so he could die from a bleeding neck wound instead of utter embarrassment.  
  
"What are you doing...?" he tries to snarl, but pants instead. When Peter lifts his face, a thin sliver of saliva trails from the corner of his mouth to the blooming mark on Stiles' neck. Stiles swallows, and the flush on his face spreads to his ears. "I thought..."  
  
Peter leans in and kisses the words out of Stiles' head, kisses Stiles until his mouth is bruised and his breathing is beyond wrecked. When Peter finally allows him a pause to gulp for air, the ceiling and walls of the kitchen feel like they're coming down on him.  
  
"You taste just like how I imagined you would," Peter murmurs. His slicked back hair is falling into his face. "Manic and sweet."  
  
"This, it, you..." Stiles can't talk right, can't see straight, and it has to be the drug - it has to be. "What the...hell did you give me, you sick bastard...?"  
  
Peter answers with another searing kiss, and Stiles' mouth is opening, letting the wolf in, teeth and tongue and hunger, and Stiles is not kissing back, he's  _not_. Without parting their mouths, Peter wraps an arm around Stiles' waist and hefts him back to the dinning room. He lays Stiles down on his back atop the table, lets the boy's arms lie where they fall - sprawled out, legs dangling off the edge.   
  
"Nothing that didn't come from the earth." Peter touches a clawed finger to Stiles' chin, drawing it down the line of his throat, the swell of his Adam's apple, stops to press into the hollow. "It doesn't alter your state of mind, nor does it affect your biological functions."   
  
"Bullshit." Stiles grinds his teeth. He's been stuck immobile before, too many times, and all he had felt was sickening helplessness, not this dizzying heat, this confusing anticipation building in his stomach.   
  
"It's merely a mild paralytic. The reaction you're having—" The wolf's claws are undoing the buttons of Stiles' shirt - one by one - instead of shredding through the fabric. "...is  _all_ you. If you could only hear it, smell it." Peter's nose touches down against Stiles' collarbone, inhales deep against Stiles' exposed chest. "You smell like  _want_ all the time."  
  
Stiles shudders, tries and fails and tries again to curl his hand into a fist. "It's called Degree Sport. I have coupons if you need deodorant."  
  
Peter's smile is wet and vicious. "I can smell your aching from across the woods. Some nights it's all I can smell. You want someone to peel you out of your skin, to crush your bones and leave you broken."  
  
"If I want it so bad, why do you have to  _drug me_?" Stiles hisses. He wants to move, he wants to punch Peter, wants to fight Peter, wants to grab Peter, wants to...   
  
Peter's hand slides over his body, but he's not caressing Stiles, he's looking for something, searching. His palm moves down Stiles' side, reaching into the back of Stiles' pants, and he pulls out a serrated knife. Then the warding charms. A pouch of mountain ash and wolfsbane. Another knife. He sets each one of Stiles' weapons down on the table next to the boy's slumped arm.   
  
"Your scent is inviting." Peter's eyes flash. "But you're dangerous."   
  
Stiles blinks and is stunned into silence. He's been called a lot of things, but nobody has ever called him _dangerous_ before. Peter takes the opportunity to lift him, shifts his arms out of his sleeves, and drops Stiles' shirt to the floor. He dips a claw into the melting birthday cake, hums in contemplation, and smears a dollop of ice cream onto the mole above Stiles' heart. Stiles lets out an undignified yelp, his skin immediately prickling in defence.   
  
Peter leans down to drag his tongue over the spot, teasing over a nipple, and laps the ice cream off his chest. The contrasting sensensations of hot mouth and cold ice crosses every wire in Stiles' brain, and it short circuits in a cataclysmic bang.  
  
"You are the worst kind of contradiction," Peter says, dotting a mole on Stiles' cheek with green frosting. "How do you expect me to resist?" He dips his head and licks it clean with a nip of teeth.  
  
Stiles has no retort for him, just a seething glare, brows tightly furrowed. His mouth is open, moist at the corners, pupils large and black, and he watches from beneath his eyelashes as Peter paints each one of his moles with a coating of cake, then licks it from his body.   
  
Face. Shoulders. Arms. Stomach. Hips.   
  
"... _fu-ck,_ " Stiles says, the word falling out in two chopped syllables.   
  
Peter undoes Stiles' belt, strips away the rest of his clothes, and spreads the boy's naked body out like a banquet on the table. Stiles is hard, has been hard since the beginning; Peter stares down at him, nostrils flaring, just staring and staring and staring until Stiles shuts his eyes when he can't stand to be looked at anymore.   
  
He can  _still_  feel Peter's gaze. And Peter's fingers. Spreading the melted sugary ice up his shaft, wicked tongue drawing a slick trail and the careful scrape of fangs. Stiles opens his eyes in time to see Peter swallow him whole, sucking him in deep - up and down, up and down, and he's gasping "oh, oh,  _oh—_ " in time with every bob of Peter's head. When Peter's mouth leaves him without warning, Stiles whines in frustration, only to watch Peter shift low, cup his bottom, part him open, and move in to lap at his hole—and Stiles loses it completely, opens his mouth and moans like he doesn't care who hears, tries desperately to buck his hips, tries to fuck himself on Peter's tongue. The wolf chuckles, and the vibrations travel like ripples through his entire body.   
  
When Stiles is wet and sopping Peter replaces his tongue with one, then two curling fingers, stroking him from the inside — and he can't move his legs but his knees are shaking, and Stiles thinks he's going to come, he's going to come like this — and then the fingers are gone, and Stiles swears he's going to carve Peter's ears off in his sleep if he keeps up this torture.    
  
Peter's still immaculately dressed: he doesn't remove a single piece of clothing, doesn't even pluck open the first few buttons of his shirt. He only unzips his pants and leans over Stiles, coarse fabric against pale, vulnerable skin, black coat spilling out across the table like a great inky shadow.   
  
When Peter settles between his thighs and pushes into him, Stiles cries out. It hurts and it burns and he bites down on his lip until he tastes blood. It feels so good it makes him want to scream.   
  
Peter fists Stiles' cock in one hand and fucks him on the dining table until he _is_  screaming, until he comes all over his own stomach, brown eyes softening and glazing over, sweat running down his face. Peter doesn't stop, keeps going, fucks him  _harder_ , and Stiles hears the wooden legs of the table splinter, hears claws digging into the surface of the varnish.   
  
When Peter comes, he looks more wolf than man. For once, Stiles knows exactly what it's like to hear the sound of someone else's heart beating loud and clear.   
  
They stay like that for a while, Stiles blinking up at the ceiling, dazed, Peter slumped over him.  
  
"...how am I suppose to explain the table to my father," Stiles mutters.   
  
"You'll figure something out," Peter says, then draws himself up and away like nothing scandalous had just taken place. He does up his pants, smoothens his hair, straightens his jacket with a tug, and turns to leave.  
  
"Hey, wait!" Stiles calls out, bewildered. "Where do you think you're going?"   
  
Peter glances over his shoulder, his expression slightly pained. "Sorry, pet, the cuddling will have to wait until a time when you're less sticky. This coat is vintage."  
  
"You can't just  _leave me like this!_ " Stiles sputters.  
  
"It'll wear off soon. But now that you mentioned it, there is one more thing..." Peter slips a hand into his pocket. He pulls out his phone, and holds it up.  
  
"So I have something to remember you by, when you leave in September," he explains, and snaps a picture of Stiles laid out on the table, covered in cake and cum.  
  
"YOU—!" Stiles' face burns red with outrage. "YOU DID NOT JUST—!"  
  
Peter leaves through the back door, dogged by the vengeful cries of Stiles cursing his name in a string of extremely colorful and wildly inventive insults. He listens and he smiles and he resists the urge to throw his head back, and serenade the moon with feral howls.   
  
"I'll miss you too, Stiles," he says aloud, though no one can hear him. Just another animal in the night.


End file.
